


The Tempest Café

by beetle



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Falling In Love, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Vetra, Other, Poetical waxings over Vetra Nyx's voice, Trans Scott, rarepairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: The obligatory coffee shop!AU in which college student Scott needs a job and café manager Vetra needs competent help . . . among other things. Also, the usual suspects are there, too. See end notes for prompt. Tags added as we go along.





	The Tempest Café

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern, all-human AU. Trans and nonbinary characters (see tags), and the pronouns reflect that. If that’s a squick, perhaps skip this one. If I put my foot in it, somehow, please let me know so I can fix my mistakes.

 

**NAME:**

 

He squinted at the job application form and sighed, his smallish hand clenching around a chewed-over pen given to him by the pretty, bored-looking counter-person.

 

Question one and he was already regretting even stepping into the large café just off Heleus Avenue, in the small college-town of Andromeda, California. A half-mile away from Meridian University’s sprawling campus, just at the western-end of Heleus, _The Tempest Café_ was one of the few places in town that seemed to be hiring, and . . . though he was getting close enough to desperate to not be overly picky, he felt a twinge of trepidation.

 

After all, if he couldn’t even get past the first question on the freaking application—and he could only assume the questions got tougher, after that—then what would he do during the interview, assuming he got that far?

 

Sighing again, he quickly scrawled his name. Crossed it out, and scrawled the one that’d come before it. Then crossed _that_ out, and rewrote, in a careful, firm hand: **Scott Ethan Ryder**.

 

After taking a moment to settle into his decision—to proudly own the name he’d not only given himself, but was going to the trouble to legally make his own—he quickly moved on to the other questions, half-distracted by the scents of pastries and coffee that he didn’t even have the money for. He ignored the way his stomach growled, both ferocious and pitiful, and worked steadily at his table by the east-facing plate-glass window. Every so often, he’d look up and watch passersby for a few moments, letting the sun shine in _his_ eyes and on _his_ face, thinking:

 

_Scott. I’m Scott Ethan Ryder . . . nothing can change that and there’s no going back._

 

Then he’d smile a little and go back to filling out his application.

 

The **PREVIOUS EMPLOYMENT** section was woefully empty, though that couldn’t be helped. Except for a part-time job at _Starbucks_ , back in high school, he’d never really worked. He’d always been zeroed-in on his studies and focused on getting into one of his first-choice universities. Unlike Sara, who’d been so happy to be done with school—despite having an even higher IQ than Scott's, and an effortlessly quick turn of mind—that she hadn’t even bothered with applying to colleges and gone straight into the workforce.

 

 _Sara_ was a natural at whatever job she’d turned her hand to—was currently apprenticed to a tattoo artist who called himself Drack—as she had been with her studies. Scott, however, had had to work at everything in his young life—even just being who he really was. Had had to _work_ for the four-point-oh he’d maintained throughout high school and the first three and a half years of college. Work to keep his job at _Starbucks_ —though, that hadn’t gone so well. At best, Scott had been disorganized and easily flustered, as a barista. He'd done everything wrong from messing up drinks and mixing up orders, to misplacing money or simply placing it in the wrong till. His manager, a hard-ass, but not an unkind one, had eventually, after five months of near-constant screw-ups, let Scott go.

 

Scott had been not-so-secretly relieved.

 

Now, however, four and a half years after telling himself he’d never work as a barista again, even if the only other option was homelessness and starvation, he found himself savoring the perverse irony of the universe.

 

 _Who knows? Maybe a few years and a few thousand miles’ve made me a more competent worker_ , Scott mused wryly, snorting as he gazed over at the small, but popular strip-mall across the intersection of Heleus Avenue and Kadara Port Road. The official name of said strip-mall was _Sloane Kelly Plaza_ , after Andromeda’s most notorious and corrupt mayor. But the locals just called it _Kadara Port_ , and rolled their eyes at anyone who called it anything else. _Hopefully, at least competent enough to keep this job till I graduate. It’s unfair that Sara’s been carrying me since Dad kicked us out._

 

With a third sigh, Scott returned his attention to his half-done job application. Managed to get another few sections completed before a throat was impatiently cleared to his left.

 

He found himself looking up into a pair of intensely blue eyes and a sassy sort of smirk.

 

“So,” the young woman who’d given him the application said brusquely, arms akimbo, orange tank-top riding up to show a flat stomach with a pierced belly-button. The nametag just below her left collar bone said _P.B_. “What’s your poison, slim?”

 

“Uh,” Scott replied intelligently, his voice cracking up high enough to make him wince, then try harder at modulating it. Even after three-plus years, he still had moments of lost control when it came to voice and speech modulation, as well as body and movement modulation. “My poison?”

 

“Yeah.” P.B. rolled her round, pretty eyes and smirked wider. “What’re you drinkin’?”

 

“Oh. Um.” Thinking of his mostly empty wallet, Scott winced again and shrugged. “Nothing, for now, I guess. I’m, uh, not really . . . thirsty. . . ?”

 

“Sure, you’re not. Listen, it’s on the house, kid, since you’re probably gonna wind up workin’ here.” P.B. shrugged, too, tilting her shaven head as if measuring Scott. “So, what’ll ya have? Wait—lemme guess,” she said quickly, squinting at him intently. “Iced medium Americano, almond milk, four sugars.”

 

Scott blinked, then smiled. “If you’re offering, I won’t say no.”

 

P.B. pouted. “Hmm. I’m usually pretty accurate when it comes to reading people’s coffee preferences.”

 

“You were close,” Scott informed her, chuckling. “I, um. I’m allergic to almonds, so it’s soymilk. And I like my Americanos hot.”

 

P.B.’s eyebrows shot up and she nodded at the scorching, dry day outside the window of the cool, air-conditioned café. “Even on a day like _this_ , slim?”

 

“Even today.” Scott dimpled up at her and she snorted.

 

“Well . . . to each his own. Coming right up, cute-stuff.” Shaking her head, P.B. sashayed away. Scott watched her go from the corner of his eyes, then went back to the application, smiling.

 

He was just finishing up the last bit of the application when a _tall_ cup of steaming hot Joe and a plate with a huge, lightly-steaming scone appeared at his elbow. Startled, he looked up, blushing and still smiling, with a warm _thanks!_ for P.B., only for the thanks to get stuck in his throat. His own dark brown eyes widened as he stared up into obliquely slanted, tawny-colored eyes, brimming with curiosity and good humor. They were set in a face that was oval-shaped and angular, with a high, clear brow; wide-planed, prominent cheekbones; a sharp, aquiline nose; a wide, mobile mouth, and a strong jaw and chin.

 

This intriguing, regal face was surrounded by fine, indifferently-cut, medium-brown hair, which was standing up in several directions, as if distracted fingers had been run through it repeatedly.

 

“Hey, there,” the newcomer said in a smooth, resonant voice, unlike any Scott had ever heard—soft and ringing at the same time, and somewhat androgynous, despite the lightness of such a melodic alto—and nodded at the mostly-done application in front of him. “How’s that comin’ along?”

 

Scott blinked several times as he took in the barista standing at his side, smiling wryly, but kindly. They were tall—at least six feet, which made them a good six inches taller than Scott—and wearing a black t-shirt, with rolled-up sleeves that showed off broad, bare shoulders and long, strong-looking, muscular arms. The shirt was tucked neatly into a pair of belted cargo pants that seemed to go on forever before ending in a pair of worn, steel-toed workboots.

 

“Um,” Scott mumbled, flushing even deeper and trying on an uncertain smile as he picked up the cup— _way_ taller than the medium he’d been offered by P.B.—and noted that on the side, all the correct preference boxes had been ticked and, below them, scrawled in a bold, heavy hand, was the moniker: **Cute-Stuff.** He snorted. “It’s coming? I mean, uh, it’s . . . nearly done. Just gotta read the fine print, sign, and date.”

 

“Ah,” the barista said sagely, sounding rather amused. Scott held up the cup, fighting another blush.

 

“And, uh, thanks for the freebie, but . . . um . . . this’s bigger than the medium P.B. said she was gonna get me, and I don’t want anyone to get in trouble. . . .”

 

The barista’s right eyebrow, fine and curving, quirked up and they made meaningful eye-contact with Scott, those tawny eyes hooded and slightly unnerving.

 

“ _I_ decide what you drink, now,” they said in a low voice that sent legit _shivers_ down Scott’s spine, causing him to gape, wide-eyed and startled.

 

Then, the barista snorted and chuckled a little, gesturing back toward the counter. “Just yankin’ your chain, Cute-Stuff. I should apologize for this taking so long to get to you. P.B. made your drink _without_ telling anyone who it was for, and left it at the pick-up table. Then she went on her break. When I figured out it was for _you_ , I hadda remake it, because it’d gone cold.” They rolled their stunning eyes in exasperation. “She never remembers to ask for a name, just labels the cups however she wants . . . which can be nerve-wracking, when it’s someone as . . . outspoken as P.B.”

 

“I can imagine,” Scott agreed, thinking of the blunt, sassy barista and turning the cup so he could take a sip. It was heavenly: hot and _sweet_. “Good thing it’s so obvious that _I’m_ Cute-Stuff, huh?”

 

This new barista laughed, bright and warm, like aural sunlight, giving Scott a friendly once-over. “Well . . . _that_ , and you’re the only person left in here without a beverage or food.”

 

“Oh.” Scott blushed and cleared his throat, taking another sip of his milky-sweet Americano. “Right.”

 

The barista snorted, pulling out the stool next to Scott’s and sitting gracefully. They smelled dark and sweet, like fresh-ground coffee and fresh-baked pastries. “Aw, don’t _pout_ , Cute-Stuff, or I’ll smack ya on the back and that pouty face’ll _stay_ that way!”

 

Risking a glance over at them, Scott smiled, crooked and hopeful, which garnered another outright laugh. “ _There_ ya go! _Now_ , I see how ya earned the nickname!” They gestured at the cup with a long, tapering index finger that had a Sponge Bob bandage around the tip.

 

Turning redder than ever, Scott's gaze drifted to the scone. It looked flaky and crusty and _delicious_. “The nickname, yeah. But what’d I do to earn the scone?”

 

“Oh, that’s just sustenance because you’ve been here for the past hour, working on that application like it’s your Master’s thesis.” Scott could see the barista shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Figured you could use the fuel.”

 

“Thank you,” Scott said earnestly, shooting a quick smile at his benefactor, then aiming his gaze back at the scone as he broke off a piece. “Um. I’m allergic to almonds, so. . . .”

 

“No worries, Cute-Stuff, that scone’s a pineapple and maple one . . . no nuts of any kind. It’s one of our most popular, and the last one left, too.”

 

“Mmmf . . . can see why,” Scott mumbled around a warm, sweet, mouthful, rolling his eyes in near-ecstasy. “ _Wow_.”

 

“I know, right? Gil’s got a knack for coming up with the oddest-sounding, but most amazing taste-combinations I’ve _ever_ tried. He’s easily the best baker in the world. A pastry-engineer,” they said with the air of someone repeating an oft-said and dearly-held truth. Scott, on his third mouthful of scone, nodded in fervent agreement as he licked his crumby, slightly-greasy fingers.

 

“So,” the barista finally said after few silent minutes had passed, during which they’d checked their email on their phone and Scott had finished his scone and the application, and was sipping his Americano while watching the tiny world of Andromeda go by out the window. When he tore his gaze away from the sunny vista just beyond the glass, the phone was put away, no doubt in one of the many pockets of those cargo pants, and they were watching him curiously, tawny eyes twinkling. “I take it you have a name? Besides _Cute-Stuff_ , that is.”

 

“Eh, I was thinkin’ of changing it, anyway,” Scott said dryly, winking, and the barista grinned, olive-toned cheeks turning just a bit pink as they looked down for a few moments. A bit surprised and emboldened, Scott offered his hand when they looked back up. “I’m Scott. Scott Ryder.”

 

“That . . . is an _epic_ name,” the barista said, sounding impressed. “Sounds like you should be exploring far-flung galaxies in outer space.”

 

Scott was the one to chuckle, this time. “I . . . never thought of it that way,” he admitted, shrugging. “Now, of course, that’s the _only_ way I’ll think of it. I’ll get a swelled head.”

 

The barista’s grin widened. “Well, that means you’ll fit in pretty well with _this_ crew,” they said, extending one long, slim, but capable-looking hand. Scott took it, noting that it was both dry and cool, despite the day, and their grip, while firm, wasn’t intimidating. “And, swelled head aside . . . I have a _good_ feeling about you, Scott Ryder. When would you be available to start?”

 

Blinking, Scott frowned. “Start?”

 

“Yep. Oh!” The barista rolled their eyes and gave Scott’s hand another shake before letting go. “I forgot to introduce myself: I’m Vetra Nyx. Manager, scheduler, and all-around employee-wrangler for this place.” They winked and shrugged when Scott sat there, gaping at them, then down at the application . . . then back up at them. Then, they snorted again. “Eh. Applications are just formalities. I hire based on interviews and gut-feelings. So, if you’d like the job, Scott, it’s yours.”

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Stitchcasual’s prompt: [today the barista at Starbucks accidentally gave me a trienta instead of a venti (which was cool cause hey more coffee) and I pointed it out in case she wanted to switch it so she doesn’t get in trouble or something and she looked right at me in my eyes and said “I decide what you drink now” Imagine your otp](https://stitchcasual.tumblr.com/post/160226903149/hogwartzlou-kramergate-today-the-barista-at)


End file.
